


Only Human

by Beth Harker (Beth_Harker)



Category: Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-30
Updated: 2016-12-30
Packaged: 2019-09-30 08:30:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17220458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beth_Harker/pseuds/Beth%20Harker
Summary: Sometimes art isn't enough.





	Only Human

Looking at Jack was like looking at the sun. Well, except for the part where the sun would blind you given half a chance, but Crutchie wasn’t any kind of poet, and he guessed it wasn’t fair to hold himself to a poet’s standards. Jack was just brilliant. That was what it boiled down to. Everything he did was perfect. When he talked, folks stopped to listen. When he drew, worlds appeared. He was always at the center of everything, except for when he was at the front. There were people, and then there was Jack. Jack was something more.

——–

Being around Crutchie was like being around an angel… or Jack would’ve said that if it wasn’t patronizing as hell. People always wanted to paint kids like Crutchie with wings and halos, and call ‘em too pure for this sinful earth. And that kind of philosophy was horseshit, but Crutchie was still the best guy Jack knew. Jack couldn’t explain it. He wasn’t a poet, after all; maybe he wasn’t smart enough. He knew that nothing scared Crutchie, and he always had the right words for everybody. Being around Crutchie made feel Jack warm. There wasn’t anyone else like him.

——–

Sometimes Jack startled awake in the middle of the night, shaky and in a cold sweat that he’d never admit to. Crutchie’s brown eyes would meet his, Jack would muster up a self deprecating grin, then flip over and try to get back to sleep, knowing that he was not alone.

Sometimes Crutchie would stay up for half the night, because his body was sore from head to toe, and pillows and blankets had no power to distract him. On those nights Crutchie wished he’d just stuck to the streets, where he could be uncomfortable for free, but then Jack would wake up and look at him. And there was something to those moments, something a lot like connection. Eventually Jack would give up on sleeping, and climb up to the rooftop. Eventually Crutchie would give up on sleeping and go take a walk at two in the morning, because what else was he going to do? The connection would be broken.

Then one night it wasn’t.

It started with a hey kid and a do you wanna come with me? and a yeah, sure! let’s go.

It ended with two boys sitting on a rooftop in the middle of the night, while the city was cool and quiet. Jack showed Crutchie some old drawings of his, narrating the trials and tribulations of learning how to draw hands, until Crutchie felt safe laughing at a couple of Jack’s early examples, even as he admired his skill.

Crutchie pretended to be terrified of tornadoes when Jack called him fearless, only to admit quietly a few nights later that Children’s Aid scared him more, because you never knew if they were going to give you a new crutch and a Christmas dinner, or if they were going to cart you off somewhere “for your own good”. Crutchie liked his freedom. It’s what he valued in life. Jack was the same.

Slowly but surely, poetry and imagery gave way, until each looked at the other and saw a real flesh and blood friend, better than any kind of heavenly being or guiding light. When Crutchie looked at Jack he saw a brother. When Jack looked at Crutchie he saw the same.


End file.
